The Aftermath
by SentimentalDefect
Summary: It hits them both hard in the morning. Sherlock may well have convinced the others that the drugs had simply "been for a case", but John knows full well there is something much more sinister brewing. Ever the addict, detox hits Sherlock hard this time 'round. Set during HLV directly after the drug test at Bart's and Mycroft's forcible removal from Baker Street. SickSherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! I have returned to the Sherlock fandom. *bows* After much time off, and several re-watches of the miraculously perfect Season 3 on the flight to Rome, I have decided it is time to take another stab at the wonderful world of Johnlock. Although I have yet to decide how physical/resolved the relationship will become within this story, expect angst Johnlock and hints at romantic/sexual attraction between the boys. This is set the morning after Mycroft's removal from the flat in HLV (following Molly and John's little intervention at Bart's). Please read and review! XOX**

It hits them both hard in the morning.

It's not an unfathomable event, indeed it is one that has crossed John's mind on numerous occasions and constantly lurks around the perimeters of his darker thoughts on bad days and nights, nights where Sherlock is gone, out or otherwise indisposed within the flat, brooding over a case (or more frequently, the lack thereof) or in one very unusual incident, the aftermath of Irene Adler's so-called "death".

His (partner? friend?)'s shaded past and dabbling in drugs is no secret to anyone, least of all John, but he himself has never faced Sherlock in the physical throes of a high, nor has there ever, in all their years together, been any indication of substance abuse. Still, neither the incident at the house (the drug den, really, but Sherlock's eyes practically rolled from his skull when John used such severe terminology) and the memorable assault with Molly at the lab afterwards, neither of these incidents were without warning signs, and in the light of day, John realized all too well how blind he had been over these last few weeks.

The wedding had gone well, John had thought, and Sherlock had seemed to have if not an "enjoyable" time, at least a sportingly un-painful one, and between the attempted murder at the reception and unexpected case over dessert, John had (foolishly) supposed that the real gravity of the event would melt away into the distance.

Clearly, this had not been the case.

For no matter how high the adrenaline, no matter how epic the mystery of how delicious the cake, it was ludicrous to assume that the Great Sherlock Holmes could be tricked into forgetting the departure of his only friend.

"The end of an era", Mrs. Hudson had told him over tea, "It's not ever going to be the same again, is it?"

"No." John had thought to himself. "No, it isn't."

The three weeks of silence were bad enough. Three weeks of hot, heavy, impenetrable silence from his friend had been horrific, but this gaping chasm of apart-ness was nothing compared to the drug-addled wreck John had stumbled upon yesterday morning. And the anger, the shame and rage and fear of watching Molly come through with the urine test, of standing in Bart's and silently seething as Sherlock ignored her punches and screams and came around with little but cold indifference, all of that was nothing, _nothing_, compared to the wreck John found on the floor of Baker Street Sunday morning.

"Sherlock?"

The lump of the sofa made a faint, soft sound of discomfort but did not move.

"Sherlock?"

A tentative hand on skin, brush of nails on fabric.

"Sherlock can you sit up for me?"

The lump moves fractionally, just enough to reveal a faint half-moon of neck. A shake of the head.

"Go 'way." The words are so quiet John can hardly hear them, just a shaky exhalation wrapped around two syllables, white knuckled and weak. Weak. John has never once though such a thing of Sherlock Holmes. He feels ashamed as soon as the words floats into his thoughts.

Sherlock makes no move to sit up. He lets his scowl absorb into the rug, quietly hoping that perhaps, if he lies here long enough, the jitters will stop, the chills will evaporate, and John Watson will simply disappear from the face of the planet, leaving him alone to suffer for all the destruction he has caused. Perhaps, with enough time, the rug will soak the pain out of him, and he will be left hollow and elated. Perhaps god will let him die in peace.

"Sherlock."

Someone cups his cheek, opens an eye, ever so softly, with the pad of a finger. Warm. Rough. Calloused, but mending. More fingers on his neck, finding a pulse.

John makes a deep hum, a disapproving sound. Sherlock's stomach knots and liquifies simultaneously. Disappointed.

"Fever… chills…" The words come to his ears very slowly, lazily, as if suspended in thin air. "Jesus your pulse is racing." Fiddling, shift of weight. "I'm going to have you sit up now, alright?"

"John, 'm fine. Gettoff m—" Sherlock cuts himself off with a moan as the world right itself at John's hands and his entire body is flooded with pain. His joints feel as if they are on fire, his bones have been emptied and filled with powdered glass, flooding every muscle in his body.

"J-j-john stop-p-pp…" The ache is in his liver, in his lungs, in his heart, everything is falling, sinking deeper and deeper into the earth as his falls with it. His mind is crumbling, his body watching vaguely as the castle walls disintegrate. Sitting up forces the blood down from his head and he finds himself suddenly lightheaded and neaseous.

"Sherlock, did you take something else?" John is no longer patient, no longer soft, now he is rough, angry, demanding an answer. John shakes him, hard, and the pain in his head explodes as military hands tighten at his neck.

"You bastard. You did, didn't you? All that, all we've done for you, and you're still too bloody selfish to tell the truth. Answer me." John says, no more than a hiss. His hands tighten unexpectedly, and Sherlock catches a glimpse of something black in his gaze. Time choses its reveals unexpectedly, and in that moment, those two years of agony are bright as day in John Watson's eyes. Beneath their blue is something dark, something sharp and bitter and relentless, and right now whatever it is is looking into Sherlock's very core.

"Sherlock Holmes," It spits, "you will tell me what you took. What. Have. You. Done."

The grip tightens and Sherlock feels his stomach roll, eyes suddenly oversensitive to the bright lights, the street too loud, the carpet far too sharp.

"Nothing," Sherlock croaks, "Nothing, that's— that's the problem."

And just like that the black is gone, replaced by the most tranquil of blues. The realization crashes over them both, and Sherlock can nearly see the word form on John's lips even as he chokes it back down and releases Sherlock's cheek.

Withdrawal.

"Shit-" The explosion of sound sends him crashing over the edge, and John pulls his hands away just in time, as Sherlock turns to his side, dry heaving against the bile in his throat. He senses John in his periphery but pushes him away with the lingering energy he can muster. His limbs ache. He continues to heave over the carpet, coming up with nothing but bile and bitter saliva that catch in his raw throat and make him want to gag more.

"Here."

A bowl is thrust under his chin without ceremony, and John's hand settles comfortably against the small of his back, rubbing minute ovals on his spine. The touch makes him feel sick all over again. Sherlock imagines where those hands might have been, the flesh they have touched, the sounds they brought to light. John's touch against Mary, his hand against her clit, opening her, spreading her wide before letting his mouth take her for himself—

STOP.

Just stop.

A moan, a scream, something like a wounded animal.

It takes him a moment to realize the sound is from his own lips. John is saying something now, something urgent, something pained. The word "hospital" tears through the space, and Sherlock feels the next scream as it shreds up his vocal chords.

"NO! No.. no hospital don't you dare John don't not there you can't you can't I'll—"

The room spins before breaking into two, twin John's staring anxiously back at him, four eyes placating.

"Alright, alright, no hospital—"

"Promise?"

John looks as him for a moment, searching. There's a flash of- what? Hope? Sorrow? Pity? Something broken in those eyes, but before Sherlock can drag his mind out to identify it, John has already turned away.

"Right, yes, of course." He mumbles. "Promise."

**To be continued?**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had always thought they would grow old together.

The particulars of their "together-ness" were never clear to him, but frankly the specifics had always seemed unimportant, irrelevant details to a companionship that was rooted in _knowing, _not in expressing.

He had simply assumed that John knew too.

Somehow, John manages to get him to his feet, and the two men struggle to the bedroom, Sherlock nearly dead weight against John's bad shoulder. John keeps quiet about it, doesn't complain or whimper or vocalize it in any way, but Sherlock can tell from the way John trembles that the pain is quite severe.

At least they have one thing in common.

The queasy feeling from before has intensified, the pain in his joints and head now pounding in agonizing rhythm with his heart, and it takes all he has not to vomit on the carpet as John deposits him onto his bed. They sit for a moment, recovering, and Sherlock takes note of John's labored breathing, the faintest edge of a hiss on his tongue as he rotates his bad shoulder, the tang of blood as the both bite their lips to stop from crying out.

"Fuck." John mutters as he rubs at his arm, and Sherlock can feel the eyes on him as John spins full circle into doctor mode.

"Right then." John clears his throat, begins to roll up his sleeves. "Do you have anything you normally take for this sort of thing? Pain meds? Anything?"

"No."

"Nothing."

Sherlock shakes his head, a fractional shift from right to left. The scratch of cotton again his cheek sends spikes of white hot pain up his temples, yet he gasps out a response in spite of it.

"Us— us—used to have some benzodiazepine, but Mycroft—" He lets out a moan as the pain spikes, fingers strangling the sheets as he arches off the mattress. His eyes are being twisted from their sockets, his brain wrenched from his skull, bone cracking and snapping even as John tries to soothe it back together.

John can feel himself beginning to shut down as he watches, his own mind overcome with panic, rapidly clouding away his medical knowledge as he watches his best friend scream as though he is being tortured. Substance abuse is never pretty, and the detox nearly always worse- John knows this, rationally understands that it will pass, heal, that the pain is unavoidable but will ultimately dissipate, a demon that must be exercised through patience and encouragement, and yet this does nothing to soothe his own mangled nerves as Sherlock writhes on the bed, trembles from a chill John cannot feel.

The detective's lips move fractionally, face contorted in pain as he clutches John's knee through his jeans. John lets his hand slip down, covering Sherlock's hand with his own, trying not to flinch when Sherlock finally manages a word from underneath the panting.

"Hurts"

"What hurts?" John whispers.

Sherlock shakes his head slightly, whimpers into the sheets. He looks like a child. John strokes very softly at his hair, leans in close to ask again.

"What hurts, Sherlock?"

Sherlock lets out a wail, and for a moment he looks nearly hysterical. Yet when he speaks it is feeble, fragile like tissue paper.

"…. hur's so much… 's not… 's not usually this bad."

Every word is chalky, faded, lacking the precision and pressure of Sherlock's usual cutting dialogue, colors bleeding away from their normal brights and melting into Easter pastels.

John has forgotten how to use his hands, his mouth, his tongue. Everything is distant and strange, his feet too large for his shoes and the buttons on his shirt painful when he breathes. But this is not about him. It's never about him. This is about Sherlock. Sherlock needs him.

The detective's breathing has intensified, rapidly approaching hyperventilation, and John shakes himself from his shock, breaking the surface to gasp a breath of air that might just save them both from drowning.

"Hey, hey, it's alright, Sherlock, okay? You're going to be just fine, okay? Just breathe for me, hmm? Deep breath, nice deep breaths. Mm hm. Just like that. Just like that."

Sherlock stiffens, forces himself to choke down are that makes him gag, squeezes his eyes tight and focuses on breathing. In and out, just like John says.

He thinks perhaps, if he can do just this one simple thing right, maybe John will stay.

Even through the pain, even with his eyes shut tight, he can still feel John's glow in the room, a faint aura of blue and plaid and aftershave picked up from the Tesco. It's nothing special, some generic brand that's no more than a couple of pounds, but Sherlock has become quite fond of it. Despite his awareness of its chemical makeup; of the molecular components of each ingredient, the elements that bonded and reacted to create this one particular scent, one worn no doubt by thousands of blokes all across the country, Sherlock now labels this scent simply as "John".

The doorbell rings suddenly. The sound sends waves of hyperawareness down his spine, endless pools of neon yellow rings that flash before Sherlock's eyelids in sync with his pulse. He presses his hands over his ears, not caring what he looks like at the moment, because he can feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on and the thought alone makes his blood turn cold.

He doesn't realize just how warm and comforting John's presence is until it's gone, rustle of pants as he stands and goes to the door, leaving a hand-shaped oval of emptiness on Sherlock's shoulder.

The patch of cotton begins to cool almost instantly to room temperature.

Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest and tries not to scream.

He wants to. Wants to rage and shout and shake John, punch him black and blue, kiss him drunk, fuck him into the wall until they both see stars, until John comes screaming his name and promises never to leave him again. He wants to prove himself, prove he has something that Mary does not, cannot, will never have, something profound and beautiful and poetic beyond words, something that does not require a ring to be understood.

He knows it's too late.

He would say he has been replaced, but truthfully, he has come to understand that he never occupied enough of John's heart to merit a replacement. Mary has not come to succeed him, Mary has come to provide what he could not.

His shoulder is now cold, his limbs warmed only by the heat of his own body.

The migraine has wormed its way into his brain now, and even his thoughts are becoming fuzzy, marred, as though the hard drive is being warped by a magnet, not erasing, but simply reshaping into something dark and ugly and broken. He wonders if the damage has already been done.

He's nearly forgotten about John until the warmth returns, this time at his knee, as John settles on the bed with what sounds like a bottle of pills.

"Mycroft." He says by way of explanation, nudging the pills. "I've got some anti-neauzea medication for you. Should help put you to sleep too."

He can hear John shake a few tablets into his palm, wait patiently for Sherlock to sit up. When he doesn't, John simply sighs, fingers gently brushing Sherlock's jaw.

"Open up."

Blue dissolves against pink, and Sherlock tries not to let his mouth linger on John's fingers. John gives him an awkward little pat before standing.

"I'll be in the other room if you need me. Try and get some sleep?"

_"__Stay" _Sherlock thinks, but John doesn't, instead departs without another word, leaving nothing behind but a faintly sweet aroma of aftershave tucked into the sheets.


	3. Chapter 3

_"__Don't panic…. absolutely no reason to panic…." _

_"__Oh, and you'd know of course?" John flashes a skeptical scowl in his direction, and Sherlock feels something take flight in his chest. A bird, lost in the valley below his sternum, desperate for release. _

_"__Yes, I would." He swallows. There is so much he knows. So much that can never be spoken. John is still watching, Mary's eyes boring into his cheek. _

_He forces a smile, sinks the punch line."You're hardly going to need me around now that you've got an actual baby on the way." And John laughs at that, a tinkling, sweet, fleeting thing that flutters just beyond their fingers before breezing off into the hum of the wedding. _

_It hardly matters that his own laugh is hollow and sharp, a cheap, vulgar attempt at normality that he is shocked passes as believable to John's ears. His stomach is empty, his cheeks ache, his chest burns, and yet it is all worth it so long as John Watson keeps laughing for him. _

_For a moment they look at each other, and for just a fleeting half-second Sherlock almost thinks John can see the chasm between them, and for the span of a breath, it looks like his dear doctor might just jump. For him. The words are there, a heavy nothingness between their eyes, as lashes flutter and pupils dilate, everyone's gaze desperately averted from this obscenity in the room. His suit is suddenly very tight and Sherlock plucks at a stray thread, suddenly hyper-aware of how stark is own dark ensemble is against the pastel-brights of John's guests. He busies himself with his feet, trying to ignore the way Mary waist fits, just so, in the curve of John's hand. _

_Which of this things is not like the others? _

_"__Come along, husband." A tug of the arm, a wistful grin, and it's all over. The sea of gaiety is too much, its currents tearing him to pieces. His head is pushed below water, lungs gasping for air, and John makes no move to involve himself, even when Sherlock does not break the surface. _

_"__Freak." Someone whispers, a needle to his neck. _

_"__He doesn't love you." _

_They're pushing him down now, the voices, ripping him apart against his own silent screaming, waiting for a hero that will never come. His brain is foggy now, lungs heavy with water, body betraying him as it drags him down, down, down, toward a solitary grave with no promise of release. _

_Which of these things does not belong?_

_"__John…" He screams, but all that escapes is a bubble of air, bursting to the surface as John holds his new bride to his chest, mere inches away, rich in the knowledge that his true life is about to begin. _

_"__He doesn't love you." He thinks, and then the world recedes into oblivion. _

"You're awake."

Sherlock stares back, bleary eyed, none-too-gracefully adjusting his pajama trousers from the doorway. His eyes narrow darkly as he takes in John's slumped figure on the sofa.

"Obviously."

John's mouth purses, but he holds back the sharp words that threaten to lash out against his tongue and instead settles with a question.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Migraine gone?"

"I'll manage."

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that. You slept for ages." John stands, gestures to the sofa. "Sit down."

A roll of the eyes. "I'm fi-"

"I said, sit down." There it is again, something dark and unyielding, just beneath the surface of those blue, blue, waves, and John's mouth presses together more tightly, as if holding himself back.

"Sit down, Sherlock." He repeats, and Sherlock finds himself numbly stumbling forward, as if drawn forth by an invisible hand guided exclusively by John Watson's gaze.

He sits on the sofa, remarkably pliant for once, and John pulls out his medical kit from under the coffee table, before sitting himself on the dark wood. Sherlock finds himself poked and prodded without further incident, and though John appears far from happy, the ultimate results from their little "exam" seem to pass as satisfactory.

"So what's the verdict, Doctor?" Sherlock finally manages, trying to sound indifferent.

John nods. "You'll live."

"Thought as much." Sherlock sniffs haughtily. "Well, I'm off for a shower, then down to the Yard- don't bother yourself trying to tag along, if I wanted fangirls around I'd ask Anderson."

John says nothing, just purses his lips and nods once. He snaps his kit shut, turns away as though to move upstairs. Sherlock drags himself off the sofa, wincing silently at the slight headache that results from standing up. He's just beginning to contemplate the best place to snap up a pack of fags on his way to the Yard, when John cuts off his reverie.

"No."

Sherlock turns, vaguely glancing over his shoulder. "What do you mean, no? Honestly John, just because I had a…. moment, last night, doesn't mean I require constant—"

"Just. Don't."

Sherlock glances up, heart racing slightly as he sees John's stoic expression.

"Don't what?"

John is practically shaking, shredding a stray thread on his jumper apart with his fingers. His words are steady and even, calculated with a cutting precision that makes all the hair on Sherlock's body raise slightly with each passing syllable.

"Don't— you know what, Sherlock. Just stop it."

The words are out before he can help himself. "Stop what?"

"Stop pretending that everything is okay!" John's kit clatters to the ground, its owner suddenly vibrating with rage. Sherlock knows that look, knows that anger, knows that, with his better judgement on the stand, he should back off, give John the space to say what he needs to, yet he can't push back the urge to retaliate.

"What are you talking about? Honestly, John, everything is perfectly—"

"IT'S NOT OKAY, SHERLOCK. THIS—" John gestures to the space between them, "THIS IS NOT OKAY. YOU…." He tapers off, fist crashing into the wall with a loud _bang, _nostrils flaring with the choked breath he heaves out through his nose.

"You….flinging yourself off a _fucking building_ and then coming back and expecting everything to be normal between us?" His eyes shoot daggers into Sherlock's. "Not okay. You relapsing into old habits and expecting me to just let it go? Not okay. This— you— this isn't how friends treat each other."

Sherlock makes a little snort. "I'd hardly call _this _a relapse, John, I mean under the circumstances, it was a relatively minor intake of narcotics, one which I was perfectly capable of—"

He half-expects the punch, but is still taken aback by the sheer force of John's fist against his jaw. It is, perhaps, the most intimate exchange they have had in the last several months, and as he curls, half sitting on the carpet, it strikes him just how pathetic this is.

"John, honestly, I—"

The tang of iron is suddenly magnified as flesh pounds against flesh, fists and hands, knuckles and knees against bone and cartilage, and through the haze of self-righteousness, Sherlock feels the dull edge of pain begin to take over as John pummels him into the rug.

"John, stop it!"

John ignores him, delves harder, deeper, pressing into Sherlock's soft spots, his belly, his ribs, his chest. There is a wild, unfettered violence to it, something that sends a whisper of real fear into the detective, as he scrambles to push John away.

"John, stop!"

There is a crack as his foot collides with John's jaw, effectively knocking the two men apart as Sherlock gasps for breath and cradles his aching side. John lies a few feet away, panting heavily, eyes still locked on Sherlock in something of a daze. It's not remorse, not even anger anymore, just a dull emptiness that stares back at him, the look of a solider glancing hollowly at his last comrade in battle.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock finally croaks out. "What the hell have you done to me?"

John stares back, eyes still empty, weighted down with the losses of war, the death of a life that might once have been.

"I don't know." John mutters finally, eyes heavy with tears that will never be shed. "I haven't the faintest idea."


	4. Chapter 4

Neither of them have much to say after that.

It's quiet for several long minutes, both men too absorbed in fiddling with imaginary threads and not-so-imaginary bruises to acknowledge the double edged comment that hangs thickly in the air.

It's always been complicated, Sherlock supposes, and frankly, he himself has little to offer in the way of explanation. They are both fully-competent in the delicacy of the situation, the tricky business of this whole "coming back" fiasco, though Sherlock doubts that John understands the weight which his marriage (and subsequent choice of a life partner) has on his own, fragile universe crafted in the silence between.

His cheek is beginning to sting a little.

"I'm sorry." John says out of no where, and despite the inevitability of this break, Sherlock can't help but twitch at the sudden sound. "I'm so— I don't know what—" He shakes his head, as though ridding it of the excessive thoughts floating about in it, looking lost and slightly pained. "I'll get us both patched up."

John digs up the med kit, still opened, from beneath the coffee table, and Sherlock stumbles, blindly, back to the sofa, back yet again to be fixed at the hands of his destroyer.

"Split lip."

Sherlock hums.

"Sorry about that."

If he listens carefully, John doesn't sound very sorry at all. His doctor dips into the kit, dabs sweetly at his cheek. Sherlock forces himself to freeze, to stop, to cease all feeling of John's body against his own. He shrugs.

"It's fine."

It's not.

"Might be some bruising on your ribs too."

"Doubtful."

"We might as well check."

"There is no 'we' involved, John, they are my ribs, you are the one who is doing the prodding, and I'd rather not be bandaged by the same hand that broke them, thanks."

"Sherlock—"

"I said no, John. I said no—" He twists away, stopping himself as his left side screams in protest.

"Shit, sit down for a second, would you? You're just going to make them worse—"

"I know what—"

"Does this hurt?"

He sucks in a breath just in time to bite back a moan.

"That's a yes, then. Come on, let's see."

"I said no, John! Don't you—"

"Just lift up your shirt—"

"I said I don't want—"

And then suddenly everything is very, very, silent, and John's face crumples like paper, and Sherlock feels as all the air is sucked from the room as John's fingers hover, terrified, above the marred flesh.

"Jesus."

Spiderwebs of bruising pattern the pale expanse of chest, spilling over onto ribs, back, spine.

"Jesus, Sherlock."

Dark, black, purple, blue. Imprints of a boot. Tendrils of a whip.

"Who did this."

Sherlock snaps. What difference does it make to John? "Does it matter?"

John looks wounded at the question, an emotional punch to the gut as he struggles to find enough breath for words. He splutters. Sherlock maintains the calm.

"They're dead, if that makes any difference."

"Not particularly."

"No? I would've thought the whole 'eye for an eye' thing would be right up your alley." His brow furrows. "They're dead, John, they got what was coming to them regardless."

John breathes out shakily. "Yeah well I hope Mycroft beat the living hell out of them. I mean, Jesus have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? These are _serious_, Sherlock, have you even been checked out by a proper doctor? And don't lie, I might be an idiot but Mycroft is bloody well not, and if you don't tell me the truth I swear to god I will barge into that stupid club of his and demand to know what the—"

"What makes you so sure Mycroft would have stepped in and patched me up?" Sherlock snarls, eyes ripe with the glow of new fury.

John is taken aback. "What?"

"Mycroft. You're making it sound as though my dear brother has been following me around, offering little treats to keep poor, pathetic Sherlock from accidentally killing himself, when perhaps, if you weren't so absorbed with your own pitiful attempt at a life, you'd have noticed that had it not been for Mycroft complete ineptitude and indifference toward my- oh, how shall we put this- _torture_, I would not be here before you looking like a piece of poorly butchered meat."

He stares at John, cold and bitter and distant, and yet through his gated gaze, John can sense the faintest cry of pain; an agonized plea for help that perhaps only he can hear.


	5. Chapter 5

Did you miss me?

Apologies for the confusion last night- I don't know why everything uploaded all wobbly, and it took me a few tries to get everything sorted out. When in doubt, you can always visit my AO3 account under the same name if FF is having issues.

Hope you enjoy!

"_Alone is what I have, alone protects me.__"_

_John stares at him, eyes wide with hurt and anger, and Sherlock feels his insides wither, imagines his stomach as an atrium, clear and hard and impenetrable, filled with acres of greenery, fields of fruit cultivated by he and John__'__s hands. _

_And slowly, ever so slowly they wilt, green crumbling to brown, leaves fading, berries gone sour and putrid, and he tries, silently, to bring John back even as he pushes him away, to see through his lie and stay. Just stay. Just this once. _

_But John turns away, pausing only to shoot him a look of pure and utter loathing._

"_No, friends protect people.__" _

_It echoes through the empty space, plays over and over for Sherlock to hear, a mindless loop of agonizing torture, to watch his John turn away, to see him leave, to see him hate so fiercely, even as Sherlock clings to the fragile thread between them. _

"_Friends protect people.__" __John echoes, louder this time, and Sherlock screams, only no sound comes out, only a strangled whistle that dies almost instantly, leaving him alone as the door slams in John__'__s wake. _

"_You are my friend,__" __Sherlock shouts silently. __"__John, you are my friend. My only friend,__" __and even though John is long gone, he can hear the unspoken truth hissed into his ear. _

"_He doesn__'__t need you,__" __it whispers softly, and the glass inside him shatters, piercing like a thousand knives, __"__he doesn__'__t love you.__" _

Sherlock awakens with a gasp, hair damp and cheeks clammy, and it takes a moment to orient himself in the darkened surroundings.

The leather of the sofa clings to his cheek, a satisfying little sticky sound as he peels himself off, blinking wearily around the living room in search of life. Squinting, he can see the clock on the stove (10:33pm) and the four hours of sleep he's managed to drag down with him have left him feeling gummy and boneless, exhausted but somehow still wired from the day's chaos.

He does the math in his head: he must've fallen asleep around four, somehow passed out for the rest of the day. He can't remember the last time he slept. It's late, it's a weekday, so John will be at Mary's then (at _home_, Sherlock reminds himself, for _that_ is his home, the place he belongs, the place that holds wife and child and future and family) and the flat is eerily quiet. The air itself seems stagnant.

Without warning the room seems stifling, hot and claustrophobic and alien, and he stands on wobbly legs, stumbling over to the window and heaving it open. He sucks in a breath, relishing the frigid air, sharp with the tang of snow and Vietnamese noodles from down the street. His mouth tastes vile, his clothes rumpled and dirty from god knows how many days of wear, but the street is serene, beautifully tinged in purple-black light from the horizon, cars smudged with a powdering of snow.

He sniffles, notices the stuffy weight in his chest without further comment. He can feel the beginnings of a cold coming on, the tightness in his throat, the dull headache that prefaces a sinus infection, and wonders briefly what John would say if he knew Sherlock were standing out in the cold.

"_John isn__'__t here.__" _A nasty voice reminds him that sounds dreadfully like Moriarty, _"__John isn__'__t here to babysit us anymore, Sherlock. Time to be a big boy now. No one wants a basket case.__"_

As if to prove a point his headache twinges violently, kicking up the dull throb behind his eyes to a steady thrumming, an unpleasant reminder of his recent extracurricular excursions. He drops back onto the sofa, not bothering to close the window, tries miserably to massage away the pain inside his skull.

The world is very still.

One minute everything is fine. Really, it was all fine, all normal, just a normal night and a normal headache, until suddenly the loneliness hits him like a wave, knocking the breath from his lungs, the ground from beneath his feet, and he is struck by the horrific magnitude of just how alone he is.

"_You are worthless__"__, _the voices hiss, _"__You are pathetic. John will never love you. John will always leave you.__" _

The air is suddenly like fog, and he is finding it unexpectedly difficult to breath. His hands clench into fists, nails biting into flesh, piercing pallid skin hard enough to draw blood. He can't feel it though. He can't feel anything except the excruciating pain in his chest, his lungs, his heart, a white-hot, agonizing emptiness that renders him paralyzed against the couch cushions.

"_It__'__s no wonder they always leave,__" _Moriarty breathes, voice sickly sweet, _"__Who could love something like you? Why would John want a clingy little thing like you?__"_

He can't breathe.

He forces himself into a sitting position. Forces himself to bend over, head between his legs, breath coming in great gasping hiccups of air as his body tries to choke down the oxygen he can't seem to find.

He hates this. He hates himself for being so weak. For _needing _so deeply.

He can't breathe.

Logically, he knows the window is still open, he knows there is air in the room, that normal people would just breathe and be alright, but he isn't like normal people, and the air just won't come no matter how hard he tries to pin it down.

"_Breathe,__"_ He thinks, _"__Just breathe, breathe like John is here, breathe for John__"_, but it's so much harder by himself, and the air is so thick and his lungs are too small, and suddenly breathing has become a chore, a burden, and he just wants to let it all go, let go of this great weight on his back and fall into the oblivion of nothingness.

Because he's so tired. So very, very tired of pretending, of pretending not to care what They all think, pretending not to mind that John has moved on, that his world has moved on, that he has become nothing more than a novel footnote to share at dinner parties, while John- his John - is gone, long gone, snatched away by someone else who can love him and hold him and touch him without frightening him, without hurting him, and that if only he was _normal, _if only he knew _how _to love John, then John wouldn't have left. John would have waited for him.

"_But he didn__'__t,__" _Moriarty reminds him, _"__He didn__'__t wait for you.__"_

His breath catches, mid-gasp, catching on the congestion in his chest and pouring into a cough that sends him to his knees, spluttering and choking as the shit in his lungs rattles desperately, but still he can't breathe, he can't feel, he can't breathe, and the world is dotted in dangerous spots of black, his vision narrowing as the front door swings open.

"Sherlock!"

John is at his side in the blink of an eye, groceries forgotten as cool hands caress his back, fingers fluttering along pulse points, reassurances whispered into his scalp.

"Sherlock what happened? What happened Sherlock?"

It all sounds so distant, John's words echoing galaxies away, and Sherlock just shakes his head, eyes bulging as he coughs, chest heaving as his face begins to turn purple, the toxic fumes of panic rendering him breathless against John's body.

He can't breathe.

His fingers scrabble against John's chest and he feels like he's drowning, he's being buried alive, suffocated, lungs flattened inside his dying body as he chokes on his own tongue, because he can't breathe, he can't move, he can't.

Suddenly a plastic tube is being pressed against his lips, and John is telling him to take a breath, and he shakes his head because he can't, he can't do it, he can't do anything this time, he couldn't make John stay and he couldn't make John wait, and _fuck _there's that weight pushing into his heart, but John shushes him (was he speaking?) and tells him to take a deep breath, and together they breathe, just one big breath like they're going to jump, and then together they jump and John clicks the inhaler and they breathe. Just like that.

The first hit leaves him spinning, and it takes a few before he can actually breathe on his own, before the shuddering, gasping, wheezing gulps turn into regulated breathes, before John's grip on his shoulder slowly softens, until both of them can really let go.

John just sort of wilts against the soft, chest heaving like he's run a marathon as the adrenaline begins to ebb away, leaving him exhausted and drained, half cradling Sherlock's shoulders as he composes himself.

Sherlock just breaks.

He is fighting against the tears with every fiber of his being.

But still they come.

Without warning, unbidden, some unseen dam just cracks inside him, and suddenly he is clinging to John like a life-line, trying to hold him, devour him, burn himself into John's soft skin, leave a mark that will never fade. Because they are so painfully close, so disgustingly, achingly close, to each other, and he can hear John's heart and taste John's skin, and yet John isn't for him to have, isn't for him to take, and the wickedness of the world comes crashing down around them like a wave, and all he can do is sob into John's chest and beg him to stay.


End file.
